In the middle of my third massage, I realize the harm: I’ve never had sex with a guest. That’s mixing business with pleasure, and kicking the hornet’s nest any more than I already have is an awful idea.
But in the break between my third and fourth massage — the last one I’ll do before noon — a purely animal feeling eclipses my logic. It comes out of nowhere as my eyes find the clock, see that it’s nearly 10:30, and know my time is drawing near. This last flip-flop isn’t about logic. It’s base. Carnal. I find myself thinking of Lucy’s juices on my finger. The look on her face when she came. The sensation of her lips on me. The way she did as I asked — not because I wanted it, but because she did.
And it’s just my luck that right as I’m thinking all of this, Colleen Blackwood enters my cabana, wrapped in a towel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MARCO
COLLEEN LOOKS DOWN AND SEES that I’ve pitched a tent, but says nothing. Instead she smiles coyly, drops the towel with the barest pretense of turning away, and slips beneath the sheets. I’m sure she’s trying to arouse me further. Colleen is a pretty woman, but seeing her after Lucy only lowers my flag.
“You’re sprightly this morning,” she says, no doubt referring to my hard-on.
“Good morning, Ms. Blackwood.”
“You should really call me Colleen. After all, you have seen me naked.” She says this like an obvious joke, but it isn’t. The dance Colleen and I have done in the two times I’ve seen her should embarrass us both. She came here to be fondled by me while pretending she wanted therapy, and I pretended to dispense pure therapy and not notice her arousal. But I know what she wants, and she knows I know. The fact that she keeps booking and I don’t refuse her appointments tells her everything.
“Anything in particular bothering you today … Colleen?” I ask, even though I just saw her yesterday. I should remember. She’s got a pectoral sprain, meaning I need to work her chest. She has sciatica, meaning I need to work her ass. And I’ll bet she’s still got that sprained muscle right near her pussy. So many of my clients have that.
“Let’s just start and we’ll see what lights up,” she says.
“Sure.”
“Just relax me. I’m so tense.”
“You must be.”
“Why?”
I shouldn’t have said that. It was a loaded remark, and it comes from the frustration I’m feeling so intensely now. Some of that frustration is in my brain, manifesting as resentment over anything I’ll do in the hour and a half I’ll need to endure before noon, but most of it is in the region of my dick. I don’t know if Lucy will show, but if she does, I’ve got all the permission I need. The thought is trouble, but I’m savoring it anyway.
“You just seem wound up.” I want to say, Because of the hard life you have lying around on your ass in your piles of money, but I keep that truth behind my lips.
“I sure am. So much going on.”
I sort of want to hurt her again. I’ve seen Colleen around during the past few days and the woman has absolutely nothing happening. And although this is the first visit in which she’s booked one of my massages, I happen to know she’s at Hotel Indigo at least once a quarter. She stays in one of the high-end suites and is always a little (or a lot) tipsy. She has a reputation for partying in town as well — sufficient that if she died today, her epitaph would read, Local socialite. Always drunk.
She’s on her back, but instead of closing her eyes and sinking into the sensations, Colleen has her eyes open so she can stare at my arms and chest. She also keeps trying to shift so the sheet exposes her chest, but so far I’ve succeeded in wrestling it back into place without being too obvious.
“I’ve got this pain right here.” She raises a hand to indicate her tit.
I pretend I don’t hear. I’m on her shoulder, moving down her arm. I get to her hand, work my fingers into the heel of her palm, and tug gently on her fingers. I pause at her wedding ring.
“What does your husband do?”
Colleen looks at me. I don’t normally initiate conversation, usually only replying when required.
“Something in an office,” she answers. I can tell this takes visible effort, like I’m forcing her mind to a place it would rather not go. As if she was meditating and I started speaking of war.
“What kind of office?”
“The kind where he goes in at seven and comes back at eight.”
“So a high-demand job.”
“Or he’s fucking secretaries.”
I don’t respond.
After an awkward beat, Colleen says, “Oh, who am I kidding? He’s too ugly for the secretaries to want him.”
Eventually I say, “But he must make good money. Must be a high-powered kind of guy.”
“That’s what he tells me.”
“You don’t know?”
She sighs. “Oh, I don’t care. Let’s not talk about him.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Let’s talk about you.”
Ugh. I don’t want to talk about me. We did that yesterday.
Colleen sort of puzzles as she looks up at me, and I can tell that her usual drunken boldness is failing her. I wish she’d stay where she’s comfortable, instead of considering saying something that makes her uneasy, which is what’s clearly about to happen. Colleen, and women like her, annoy the piss out of me, but at least I know how to deal with them. Whatever she’s thinking of saying, it’s more personal. Vulnerable. Real. And I don’t want to hear it at all.
“I’ll bet you have a girlfriend.”
It’s like a high school girl probing around to see if a boy is otherwise encumbered. The idea that Colleen is considering me as more than a masseur, even in the scantest way, is disturbing. I hate being thought of as beefcake, but at least I can handle it. I don’t want the burden of fending off lovesick advances … but if that’s what this is, it wouldn’t be the first time.
“No,” I say.
“Really?”
I see the hope in her eyes. It’s tragic. She’s maybe twenty years older than me, married, and obviously not even in the vicinity of my type. I don’t want to be the one to spell out something so obvious.
“It’s not something I’m interested in.”
“Why not?”
I look down at Colleen and decide being honest is the least of evils — at least it’ll take her mind off trying to seduce me.
“Well, look at you.”
“What about me?”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen years.”
“You don’t seem to have a very … lively … relationship.”
“That’s presumptuous of you.”
I wait.
“It’s true, though,” she adds, resigned.
“Well, there you go. Why have relationships, if that’s where they end up?”
“I don’t think it’s where they all end up. It’s just where mine seemed to land.”
I shake my head. “I’ve worked here for a while. Most of my clients say the things you say. Most are women, and they tell me right here on this table how their husbands aren’t any good. It’s sad. They don’t feel respected or loved or cared for. All they have to show for their marriages is money. So they come here to spend it, and complain to the masseur about how their lives look great, but they’re rotten inside.”
Colleen sighs.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
“I’m fine on my own. I won’t stay here forever. I want to do my own thing. I just need to save up some money first.”
In the beat that follows, I wonder if Colleen will offer me some of that money. I hope she won’t. That’s not what I meant, and I really shouldn’t have said a thing.
“You must have girls coming on to you all the time.”
I shrug.
“You could find a good one.”
I wonder what Colleen is doing. She’s gone from hitting on me to trying to persuade me to fin
d the Right One. I could feel pleased, but instead I feel more hollow than ever. Colleen and these other women are fucked up and don’t even know how deep their disease actually goes. She hates her husband but won’t leave, even though she’d get half his money and get to keep right on living like she does now. She’ll badmouth him, but still seems to believe that everyone in the world should pair off and form couples. She’s not arguing for my fictional relationships. She’s arguing for her own — trying to believe her marriage, as bad as it is, wasn’t a mistake and isn’t beyond saving.
It’s tragic.
“Everyone needs companionship,” Colleen says.
“Not me. I don’t want it.”
“What about sex?”
So she’s said it. My hands pause. I wonder if she realizes how much she’s talking about herself. She’s right; people do crave sex, and touch. That’s why this place — this oasis of a hotel — exists. For most of the Indigo’s guests, vacations are an excuse for human contact. People book here so they can be touched, and feel something they don’t get in their everyday lives. Colleen is proof.
Yes, people need touch.
Yes, people need sex.
But beyond that, it’s ruin and heartbreak. I know. I tried my hand at a relationship once and it nearly killed me. Literally. There were days, after that breakup, where I actually wondered if death could be worse than to keep on living.
“Sex is fun, but it’s disposable. You have it for a while, like you’ll have good food. And then you move on to something new.”
Colleen watches me for another few long moments. The air seems to leave her as she looks away. “My back has been sore lately.”
I raise the face donut, then the sheet so it’s blocking my view, and ask her to turn.
Colleen lays there like meat as I finish the massage in silence, perfectly professional.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LUCY
I ARRIVE AT THE POOL, rolling the lily Marco left for me between my thumb and fingers. I’ve worn my bathing suit as instructed — a modest two-piece that doesn’t look bad against the pale skin I’ve developed from working inside forever.
I stop where the stone path from the hotel’s rear lobby ends and stand there to take in the lush area, holding the flower and inhaling its slight, sweet scent. It’s all a bit Pollyanna, but because nobody is looking at me, I take my time and soak it in.
It’s only a few minutes before noon. Lunch by the pool is served just like everywhere else: White-gloved waiters circulate among suit-clad guests in soft lounge chairs, clashing and yet not looking as out of place as they should. Delicious scents perfume the air — sliders, skewers, and something smoked. Behind it all is a breeze not unlike the sea, though we’re nowhere near one. The rustling of the palm trees, counterpointed against the soft waterfall, is soothing. The sun is hot on my bare shoulders and face. I get a hit of sunscreen, which reminds me of the beach.
I cross the deck in flip-flops, my eyes scanning for a free lounge chair where I can drop my bag. I have no idea what Marco has in mind, so I made sure to bring enough to entertain myself through any eventuality. I have a tattered paperback, sunscreen, a towel, a bottle of water, and my room key — a real key rather than a card — jangling around at the bottom.
There aren’t many seats. Indigo is an exclusive place with a price tag to match, so the number of clients at any given time isn’t large. Right now, it’s probably at one-third capacity. We’re in an off time, on a weekday, with spring break a few weeks behind us. Many vacationeers have already planned their time off. So I have my pick of chairs, many arranged in private clusters not unlike those in the lobby.
Where you and Marco managed to get each other off unseen.
The thought is naughty. Almost giddy. Warmth sweeps my body as the memory runs through my head. I’m sure I’m blushing, both above and below. The breeze takes on a delightfully lecherous feel as I realize that it’s touching spots I normally cover. Right now, the thinnest fabric is separating me from the world. If I shift the right way, those private spots might be exposed to the breeze.
The thought is thrilling.
I look around the large, multiple-area patio. There’s one large pool, a smaller pool, and several small pits of water that are either private pools or hot tubs. The landscaping is perfectly balanced, subtle and unobtrusive, producing atmosphere and separating one area from the next without feeling too artificial.
Here and there, tucked back like forgotten bush huts, are the cabanas. There seem to be six, each numbered with a small wooden sign planted in the dirt outside the flap that serves as its door. Most of the flaps are closed. The weather is perfect: warm in the sun, but not stifling in the shade. I imagine the cabanas, even closed, are quite comfortable.
I stopped at the desk to ask which cabana is Marco’s. It’s number three, which I spot across the way. Between me and the cabana is an out-jut of pool. A woman floats on an inflatable lounge — head tipped back, sunglasses on, soaking up rays.
The cabana’s flap is closed. I can’t knock. The clock off the pool deck still shows a few minutes before noon, and I don’t want to barge in and interrupt an in-progress massage.
I find a lounge — private enough to feel like I’m alone, but not hidden. The woman in the pool can see me if she looks this way, and so will Marco when he opens up to look.
Minutes pass. I glance up at the clock and see that it’s exactly noon.
I stay where I am. I’m right outside the place he told me to be, so it’s up to Marco to find me. I’d rather not interrupt a client. He already told me that he usually massages them naked.
The idea makes my pussy tingle. I shift my leg a bit wider, cocking it at the knee. I don’t want to look like a whore, sitting akimbo out here—but I sort of like the feel of air wicking under my suit bottoms, and I can get it if I sit just so.
I stay that way for a while, wondering if Marco’s in there shirtless, rubbing his hands all over a naked body, wondering if that’s what he has in mind for me. It would make sense. This is his cabana, where he delivers massages. I have my suit so I can sunbathe and swim afterward, but first I’ll strip to get a rubdown. We didn’t finish the last massage, and I still need one. Now more than ever.
I tip my sunglasses down and peer at the clock. Another five minutes have passed.
I’m getting warm. Even with my hair in a ponytail, the back of my neck is sweating. Beads of perspiration dot my skin. Without shifting my leg back to center, I look down past my stomach to the place where my suit has tented away from me. There’s perspiration there, too. But that’s not the only reason for the moisture that lubricates my every shifting movement.
I wonder if I should go into the pool.
I look at Marco’s cabana, its flap still closed. It dawns on me that I have no idea what’s going to happen. Last night might have been a mistake, but it also might not have been. So far today, I’ve been turned on several times just thinking back to it. The wait between breakfast and now has been excruciating. I’ve built up an image of what this might be, and I could be wrong.
That’s a problem, because I’m incredibly aroused and it doesn’t feel like a turn-on I can easily shed. Normally, on the few occasions I’ve been left unbothered long enough to become truly stirred, that arousal has been fragile. It’s often knocked off-kilter by a phone call, usually from my brother. After that, it’s gone, and I go about my day.
This feels different.
This feels the way I imagine a guy’s desire to be. It’s urgent. Persistent. And if Marco has anything less than torrid planned (which I realize is likely, considering he sent me breakfast and a flower instead of lube and a dildo), I’m going to be fighting this pent-up feeling all afternoon.
My eyes dart around. The woman is still in the pool, but I’ll bet her eyes are closed.
I squeeze my legs together. It feels a bit better, but I’m going to need a little more stimulation to diffuse this particular bomb, and that means doing something
a bit more overt.
Which would be really, really out of character.
I take a final glimpse at Marco’s cabana as I seriously consider sending my hand where it shouldn’t want to go, but at that exact moment a gust of wind catches the flap and lifts it high enough for me to see that it’s empty.
I look around — furtive, like I’m hiding a secret.
I’m not really thinking of going in there alone to … to do stuff … am I? I’m a professional woman. I practically run one of the world’s biggest and best known companies. I’m responsible for taking care of people and tending to things. I wear suits to work. I don’t come to resorts and lay around all day getting seaweed wraps and facials, lounging by the pool in bikinis. And I definitely don’t consider what I’m mulling over now.
“I’m on vacation,” I say aloud.
With another final peek around, I gather my bag and tiptoe toward the cabana.
I find the inside surprisingly cool, and scented with a medley of massage oils. An iPod on a shelf plays rainforest sounds through the attached speakers. In the middle of the room is a massage table, its sheets clean and crisp as if waiting for a guest who has yet to arrive. I spy a small fridge on the floor, with a half-finished bottle of water atop it.
I turn around.
I hop up onto the massage table.
My eyes scan the room, and I bite my lower lip.
I can barely think, and nothing is even happening.
Who am I right now?
I don’t know the answer, but it’s sure nice not to be Caspian White’s sister or Evelyn White’s daughter for a while.
My hand, innocently and over the fabric, brushes my crotch.
It’s like a bolt of lightning.
I close my eyes, exhaling. And when I open them again, Marco is standing in front of me.
I snatch my hand away. He notices, but says nothing.
Hotel Indigo Page 9
